


A Witch out of Time

by Firecadet



Category: Doctor Who, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6066829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firecadet/pseuds/Firecadet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After somewhat incautiously pursuing a valuable possession through an unknown portal, Hermione Granger finds herself marooned in Victorian London, more than one hundred years in the past, according to her frame of reference. After an unpleasant encounter in the street, she is brought to 13 Paternoster Row, where she meets the Veiled Detective and her maid. </p><p>Minor warning for very light bondage play involving Vastra and Jenny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Even though it was a study period, Hermione was still bored. Even with the best will in the world, the history of magical architecture between 1200 and 1400 was not a subject that could inspire the most interest, particularly when the weather outside was unseasonably mild.

She put the book down, reluctantly, before crossing to the window.

About a minute or so later, she heard a noise behind her.

Turning around, she saw what looked like a disembodied glitterball, formed from crystal shards, orbiting around a central point. As she stood, staring at the thing, a curiosity from her table, a lump of nickel-ferrous space rock, suddenly took off, and plunged through.

She didn't hesitate, and plunged after it, carrying her wand.

She stepped out into an alleyway, and nearly doubled over from the stench.

_I... Where am I?_

Without thinking, she found her meteorite fragment, and turned around.

Then she realised that whatever portal she'd come through had just closed.

And that she was trapped.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

About an hour later, Hermione was missed at Hogwarts.

"Professor?" Harry asked his head of house, hesitantly. "Have you seen Hermione this afternoon?"

"I haven't, Potter." Professor McGonagall answered, slightly brusquely.

"Lavender just came out of her dorm, and said that Hermione wasn't there, and noticed that her meteorite fragment was gone." Harry explained.

The professor's chair tipped over backwards.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

_Ok. Panic later, Hermione._

Glancing around, the fifteen year-old witch quickly located the nearest street, and stepped out into a period drama street scene. Her robes nearly disguised her different origin, but she knew she couldn't stay on the street too long.

It didn't take long for her to find what she was looking for in the gutter. Putting her disgust firmly out of her mind, she bobbed down, spending most of her time looking around, as if she were picking up a dropped coin in an Egyptian bazaar, and scavenged a shilling from the gutter.

A newspaper seller was easy enough to find, once she had a small amount of coin. It turned out that she had enough to by a paper, and got a healthy pile of small change in exchange. She exchanged a couple of what she recognised as Victorian pennies for a large meat pie, which steamed reassuringly as she found a doorway to sit in and read her paper.

The date confirmed exactly how much trouble she was in. 26th June, 1893, 1-o-clock edition.

"Well, shit." She muttered, mostly to herself. She finished the pie, and resolved to find somewhere safe to spend her night.

Hermione made it about half a mile before someone decided she was needed somewhere not of her choosing.

A large hand dropped onto her shoulder, and she got a faceful of beery breath as she turned.

"I've got lodgings for you tonight, Missy." He told her, brandishing a large knife, and taking a firm grip on her arm.

Unlike Malfoy, the man was too big to punch. As she had been wearing her duelling robes, carefully enchanted with various defensive charms and spells, simply because they were all that, in a rare moment of laxness, she had clean, she also had easy access to her wand.

She shook her wrist, dropping it into her hand. Pointing it at her attacker, she muttered the first charm she needed. "Relashio." His hand shot away from her shoulder, and he staggered a couple of steps backwards, before she adopted a duelling stance.

His eyes widened in piggy astonishment, before he took a step back towards her, leading with his knife.

"Expelliamus!" She yelled. The knife arced out of the man's hand, and clattered into the gutter, before the pimp took a look at her face. She wasn't going to go with him unless she was beaten unconscious. And he doubted his chances of getting close enough to do so.

So he ran.

Resuming her progress towards the spire of St. Paul's cathedral, simply because it was a recognisable landmark, she didn't get much further before being accosted by a lad in the street.

" 'Ere, miss." He said. "I think I knows someone who'd be interested in yer, and puttin' yer up fer the night." It was a broad London accent, but she could make out the majority of the sentence. "I ain't workin' fer some pimp or nothin'."

"What's your name?" She asked, playing for time, while scanning the crowd for possible threats.

"Wiggins." He replied.

She almost sagged in relief. She knew Sherlock Holmes had never really existed, but it was a name that, even in this era, and after the books had been published, could serve as a trust password. No-one would give it to her at random, and expect it to make her more trusting.

"Lead on." She replied, falling in behind her small guide, as he began to lead her through the streets of London.

"We don't get too many visitors." He explained. "Her ladyship doesn't have much work, so I figure someone who seems to have stepped out of thin air, in an alleyway that she didn't go into but came out of, is going to be of interest to her."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"So, ape." Vastra growled, holding a whip in one hand. "Give me a reason I shouldn't roast you in the oven." She flicked the whip at the female human she was holding prisoner, a brunette, of about average height for the era, with a slim build, and perhaps aged twenty-three. The captive was wearing a servant's uniform, with a navy blue wool vest over a white shirt.

"Because yer'd 'ave no-one ter make t' tea, yer daft ole lizard." The woman replied.

"And that exempts you from punishment?" Vastra demanded. "You were conducting an investigation, and you were caught by the target."

"I were wearing me vest." (1)

"Which explains how you ended up in a cellar with a keg of gunpowder next to you and a long fuse." Vastra stated. "While handcuffed to a support column."

"Another two minutes, an' I'd  'ave been away on me toes."

"So you claim. You couldn't have accessed your lockpicks from there."

"They're in the heel o' me boot, fer chrissakes. Not ter mention that t' blinkin' fuse were damp as a fish. I couldn't  'ave started it burnin' wi' a Bunsen burner."

With a smile that would have sent many running, Vastra reached over, and released the simple manacles that had been holding her captive's hands above her head. The woman she'd been holding prisoner turned around, and wrapped her arms around Vastra.

"We haven't finished the discussion of your failures, yet, Jenny." Vastra purred, an almost infrasonic sound that rattled a nearby saucer.

"Wi' all due resp'ct, Ma'am, I need ter put the blimin' tea on, an' visit t' privy."

Reluctantly, Vastra allowed the human to depart, before huddling into her shawl. Jenny had brought the wool garment for her, to increase the amount of insulation that Vastra had on a cold morning.

Just after Jenny had returned with the tea, and what looked like shortbread biscuits, the door at the rear of the house chimed.

"Are you expecting anything?" Vastra asked, as Jenny hauled herself out of the chintz armchair she'd been sitting in.

"No." Jenny replied. "I ain't expectin' a deliv'ry. Probably Wiggins trying to mooch a hot chocolate or somthin."

"Why do you insist on speaking like that?" Vastra asked. "Your adopted accent is entertaining, but it can get wearing."

"It's how I prefer to speak." Jenny replied, her accent totally changing, going from London costermonger to high society almost seamlessly. "Besides, posh voice doesn't have nearly as many rude words." She smiled slightly. "Not to mention that if people hear a servant speaking like they were at Court, there'd be questions to answer."

"Can you find a middle ground?" Vastra asked. Knowing that her maid had been faking that ridiculously folksy accent for years had left her annoyed for months.

"Not easily." Then her hearing heard the door in the back passage go. "I'd better go an' see what Wiggins wants. And if 'es after t' silverware..."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Hermione hadn't been sure where her little guide was taking her. Although she suspected he could have travelled faster if he'd followed his own routes, he'd kept to the main thoroughfares, before finally leading her into what looked like a coach yard, and pushing open the back door.

"Someun'll be alon' in a minute." He explained.

When the person presumably summoned by the bell above the door arrived, Hermione was slightly relieved to see a female servant, smartly dressed, who was probably within a decade of her own age.

"Afternoon, Miss Jenny." Her guide said. "She needs ter see Madame."

"Needs, Wiggins?" The woman replied, her eyebrows rising. Her accent was similar to his, but there was a slight precision to the diction that the boy lacked. "She's unusually dressed, but yer git all sorts 'round 'ere."

"She came outa a sidestreet down Whitechapel way she didn't go inter." Wiggins explained.

"I see." Jenny replied. "What's your name, luv?"

"Hermione Granger." The witch replied.

"I'm Jenny. Jenny Flint, is me full name, but everyone mostly just calls me Jenny." The servant replied. "I'm guessing that some bloke in a blue box dropped yer here fer some reason."

"No." She replied. "I came through some sort of portal." She showed Jenny the fragment of meteorite she'd come through after. "This got pulled through, and I came after it."

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Jenny asked, examining the meteorite fragment curiously, almost with a glint in her eye. "I know someone who'd be very interested ter hear yer story."

"It wouldn't be a bother?" Hermione asked. The servant's accent seemed to fluctuate slightly, between broad London and a far less obvious accent, almost akin to german, in some ways.

"I cin manage. 'Er Ladyship sent me fer put a brew on anyways."

Being in a Victorian kitchen while a servant bustled around, making tea, was an experience that confused Hermione. There was no sense that she should offer to help, and the child who'd brought her in had disappeared out of the back door with a shilling in his hand as soon as the transaction was complete.

"Where yer from?" Jenny asked, as she waited for the archaic metal kettle to boil on the stove.

"London." Hermione replied.

"When?"

"What?"

"What decade are you from?" Jenny asked. "With that accint, you ain't from 'round her, or this period, at a guess."

Hermione looked around a bit.

"Fer the luv o' gawd, I'm not going ter call the men in white coats out ter lock you up in Bedlam. I need ter know so I cin make sure that yer food is safe." (2)

"Late twentieth century." Hermione replied.

"Few years after my time, then." Jenny said, almost giggling.

Hermione looked at her a bit strangely.

"Hermione, I think you'd better meet Madame." Jenny said. "I'm going ter confuse you."

With a smile, the tea was poured, and Jenny took up an elegant copper tea tray, of the sort normally priced at several hundred pounds in an antiques shop. There was a whole rack of them on the wall.

Inside the room she was led to, a indistinct woman was sitting in an armchair, with a black veil covering her features, leaving what was beneath them indistinct.

"Tell Madame what yer tol' me." Jenny said, pouring a cup of tea, and taking one for herself, before standing next to and behind the armchair containing Madame.

"I'm Hermione Granger. I'm from the late twentieth century, and I arrived here through a portal of some description while trying to recover a fragment of meteorite I own that had been dragged through it."

"Describe this portal." Madame said. "And the meteorite."

"It was like a glitter ball, but without the ball. Just a bunch of crystalline things orbiting around a point." 

"And it pulled a fragment of meteorite through?" Madame asked. "What is the fragment formed from?"

"Yes." Hermione said, before continuing. "The meteorite is ferro-nickel in composition."

"Jenny, do you remember those cases with the therapod in the New Forest?" Madame asked.

"You mean that Allosaurus?" Jenny asked.

"Yes. Did we ever find out how it got here?"

"No. Eve..." Jenny tailed off.

"No." Madame confirmed. "We didn't."

"I wonder..." Jenny mused for a second, looking over their guest, and noticing the badge on her uniform while sizing her up. Not that she was interested in a teenager, regardless of period-based differences in the age of consent, of course.

"What school is that." She asked, crossing over for a closer look, while Madame sipped her tea. There was a flash of forest green as she moved the cup under her veil, which Hermione put down to a more colourful scarf or similar item underneath the veil.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" She read. "Never heard of that one."

Then Madame flicked her veil back.

Hermione jumped. Under the veil, the humanoid shape she'd observed before wasn't even remotely human. Instead, a bald, lobed head covered in green scales confronted her, with bright blue, and very human looking eyes looking out of it.

"Oh, chrissakes, you, stop doin' that ter people." Jenny chided, although Hermione could hear affection and humour in her tone.

"Hermione Granger, my full name in this time and place is Madame Vastra, although I am usually referred to as Vastra by those who know me well."

"What... are you?" Hermione asked.

"I am a lizard woman from the dawn of time. And this is my wife, Jenny."

"I thought we'd agreed not ter go bangin' on 'bout that." Jenny muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Came up with this idea while bored. It turned into a decent enough story. The portal that Hermione came through is borrowed from a cult science fiction show called Primeval. Vastra and Jenny, of course, are from Dr. Who, and Hermione, rather obviously, is from Harry Potter.
> 
> (1) Her ballistic vest, that is.  
> (2) The use of the Idiom was deliberate: She is trying to put Hermione at ease.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're... married?" Hermione asked, looking down at the date on her broadsheet again.

"Yes." Vastra replied.

"You're... both..." It wasn’t that the idea was the issue. It was the era.

"We are."

"How?"

"A... friend... of ours arranged for us to visit Betelgeuse in the thirty-fourth century. We found a priest, I lied about my species, and he married us."

"Wait... how did you get to..."

"We have a friend. As a fellow time traveller, I'm sure that you can imagine that different times exist in a continuum. A friend once described it as a rope. You can go forwards, backwards, and even sideways."

Hermione looked a bit baffled, which was an unusual expression for her.

Jenny, while Vastra was explaining, had been mentally measuring up Hermione.

"We're going to need to get you something else to wear." Jenny said. "Those... whatever they are, are going to draw attention. I've got a whole load of different garments upstairs, some of which might fit you."

Hermione noticed that although her accent was still present, she'd dialled it back, mostly to a tonal level, rather than the full, broad London accent she'd had minutes earlier. Feeling uncomfortable, a sensation that she tried to supress, she followed Jenny upstairs, and into an Aladdin’s cave of garments and accessories.

“It’ll be safest to disguise you as a servant.” Jenny explained. “Most of my… anyway, people look at you, see a servant, and you become furniture.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Vastra was doing her own thing in the hall.

“You’ve reached the Doctor. If you are annoying, a salesperson, or boringly human, please go away. If you are supposed to have this number, please leave a message. If you aren’t supposed to have this number, GO AWAY!”

“Doctor, this is Vastra.” She said, talking to the TARDIS answerphone. It didn’t sound like any of the incarnations she’d met. But that was par for the course, where he was concerned. Only a familiar incarnation would ever bother to respond to the message. “I’ve got a houseguest from the late twentieth century to look after. I’d be obliged if you could come and take her off my hands. It seems that little mystery of ours in the New Forest is back.”

Then she put the phone down, wondering again why humans had bothered to create such an inelegant method of communication.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“She’s not in the castle, Albus.” Minerva McGonagall said, flatly, standing in the headmaster’s office, with a fortified mug of tea in her hand. “Potter got out… something we aren’t supposed to know about, I suspect, and it shows the entire grounds. She isn’t anywhere in the area.”

“Have you tried a tracking spell?” Dumbledore asked.

“Of course. I used a hairbrush.” She passed the brush to Dumbledore. “It didn’t do anything significant. There was a slight tilt towards London, but she grew up there.”

“Leave it with me, Minerva.” Dumbledore said. “I may know some spells you don’t.” _And if they don’t work, I know some people she doesn’t._

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Hermione looked slightly nervously at the outfit she was being offered to wear.

“Who designed this?” She asked, the decidedly restrictive outfit she had been offered. The first layer that would go on over her underclothes, which themselves were Victorian, was a whalebone corset.

“I don’t care for it meself.” Jenny replied. “Unfortunately, these are the cultural norms.”

Hearing the modern term from the Victorian reminded Hermione that this wasn’t quite an average Victorian household. Wearing a chemise, which was made of opaque cotton, Hermione allowed Jenny to buckle her into a corset, although it wasn’t laced very tightly, merely enough to show that it was being worn. Her shirt was next, simple white cotton buttoned to the neck, and followed by a simple waistcoat of blue wool, similar to that worn by her host.

“Makes it look like a uniform.” Jenny explained, as Hermione looked down at it slightly, while the young witch pulled on her ankle length wool skirt. To her surprise, the skirt was actually more like trousers. “They see me and you dressed the same, and they assume we’re both employed here.”

“I see.” Hermione replied.

“Move around, get a feel for it.” Jenny urged her. “You’ll need to be able to move in it.” _And fight as well, if we go on a case._ She thought.

It wasn’t long before she was introducing Hermione to the basics of Paternoster Row.

“This is the laboratory.” She said, tapping one particular door on an upper floor. “Don’t go in there without me or Vastra. Some of the stuff she keeps in there is a bit tricky, and that doesn’t just mean her still.” Jenny smiled slightly. “She gets a bunch of fruits, ferments the juice, then turns it into some sort of spirits.” She gave Hermione a smile, albeit one putting up with her spouse’s habits.

“How did you two meet, anyway?” Hermione asked.

“’Bout ten years back, I was a match girl.” Jenny said. “I’d been dodging a gang calling themselfs the Tong for months. They’d cornered me in an alley, and there was about six of them. They weren’t bein’ subtle ‘bout what they wanted, neither. So I kicked the first of them to come near me in the balls, and started swearing at them. They kept their dist’nce fer a couple o’ minutes, and they they got a bit braver, once the knives started to come out. Madame had heard the disturbance, but the first thing I knew o’ her was when she dropped out of the sky onto one of the thugs, and started on them with a cutlass. I’d got a twist of pepper I’d been saving for the first of them to get close, and I sort of threw it at her. She got a bit disoriented, but that were it. She finished her lot off, but one of them had been the far side of her, and ‘e rammed a knife into me chest.” Jenny tapped a spot just below one of her breasts. “I went down and stayed there. She came over, told me to leave the thin’ alone, and shoved a knife into the bastard who stabbed me, then pulled it out again.”

“What happened?”

“He died. Quickly", she said. "I regained consciousness in some old garret over a Gin shop. The knife was gone, and there were just a thin scar where it’d been. It weren’t until years later…” Jenny stopped, looking a bit embarrassed. “Anyway, she took me on as a cleaner, and a friend, I think, not that the old thing will ever admit it. She uses words such as pet.” Jenny shook her head slightly. “She’s got her ways, anyway. I’d never ask her to change them.”

Hermione looked slightly surprised as she digested the details, while Jenny kept moving, showing her bits and pieces.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

As the fifth, most sensitive, tracking spell he could think of produced no result, Albus Dumbledore decided that he probably needed to call in some assistance.

“This is the Doctor. I may be a trifle busy, or possibly running from something that wants to eat me at the moment, so please leave a message after the tone, and I’ll listen to it as soon as I can.”

“Doctor, it's Albus.” Dumbledore said. “I’ve got a missing student. We’ve done the usual spells, but she isn’t anywhere we can detect. I’ve got a full package for her, but I think this is something on your end. Minerva thinks it was one of those ‘anomalies’ that the muggles have been having trouble with, from what Potter told her. Something about a meteor fragment being missing from her desk.”

Then it was a matter of waiting. He'd met the man, or whatever exactly he was, at a briefing between the muggle security agencies, UNIT, and the Ministry of Magic. According to the brief biography, he was a time traveller who assisted UNIT. He'd been introduced to Dumbledore later, and a shared something had meant they got along well.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Do you know how to defend yourself?" Jenny asked Hermione. "I ain't looking for an excuse t' throw you around the sparring mat or anything to prove I'm better than you. I know I probably am."

"Not really." Hermione replied. "I can do quite well with this." She pulled out her wand.

"What the bliddy help do you do with that?" Jenny asked. "Shove it in their eye?"

"It's easiest to demonstrate." She pointed it at Jenny, who took up a loose, fluid ready position.

"Petrificus Totalus." Hermione muttered, firmly. The statute of secrecy could... be temporarily ignored, and it was unlikely that a trace applied in the twentieth century would work in the nineteenth.

Jenny's arms snapped against her sides, and her legs scissored together. She landed face first on the sparring mat, with what sounded like extremely muffled swearing coming from her.

"Finite incantation." Hermione muttered, keeping her wand trained on Jenny.

"Bloody 'ell." Jenny muttered, rubbing her nose slightly. "I thought it was some sorta stage magic school you'd escaped from."

"Not really." Hermione replied.

"Can anyone learn ter do that sorta thing?"

Hermione looked at her a little. "You have to be born with a talent for it." She explained. "Have you ever moved things around with your mind, made something vanish, or made something really strange happen to someone who annoyed you?"

"Not in the way I suspect you're thinking of." Jenny said, almost sadly. "I ain't got 'alf the abilities Madame has, but I don't think she can either, unless you count supper for things vanishing." She grinned slightly. "Weird things do happen to people who annoy her, but I'm working on getting her to behave."

Hermione chuckled slightly, and Jenny joined in a few moments later.

"Are you going to want help with the housework?" She asked.

"I'm not sure." Jenny replied. "Stuff like the dusting and a bit of cooking, sure. I'm not going to try and teach you silverware maintenance or some of the stuff I do, because I... don't need the help." _And unless I miss my guess, you're only going to be here a few days._

Then there was the sound of someone trying to break down the front door using the knocker.

"Come on." Jenny said. "I'm guessing that Madame has a client.

Leading the way back through the house, Jenny headed for the kitchen rather than the front door.

"You aren't going to answer the door?" Hermione asked.

"I'll introduce you to our butler later." Jenny replied. "Madame will get waspish if I don't have tea for her in the next five minutes."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was writing this chapter, the turbine hall of a disused power station collapsed during demolition work. It is believed, although not yet confirmed, that four demolition workers at the site lost their lives as a result. My thoughts are with their families and colleagues, and all those involved in the rescue operation.

When Jenny trotted into the kitchen, Hermione was mildly startled by just how much stamina it had needed for her to keep up with the Victorian, while wearing clothing correct for the period.

Opening a small alcove in the wall, Jenny extracted a few bags of tea, before gesturing for Hermione to take a look inside.

Other than the stack of tea chests, the room also contained what looked suspiciously like a modern washing machine and a tumble dryer.

“They vent into the cellar.” Jenny explained, as she pushed the alcove shut again. “We don‘t use them a lot of the time, but when you have to deal with some of the stains Madame brings home, you need something a bit stronger than soap and a washboard.”

Hermione decided that she probably didn’t want to know much more.

The archaic iron kettle was once again filled with water, and quickly boiled, before Jenny, after passing a nervous Hermione the tray, laden with bone china teapot and four cups, led the way back into the consulting room.

When they pushed the door open, a man, with pale skin and blond hair, was pacing around, glancing at the window frequently.

“Ma’am?” Jenny asked. “We have your tea. Do you want us to stay?”

“Thank you, Miss Granger.” Vastra replied, once again under her veil. She made an imperious gesture at the pair of ‘servants’. “Please, remain. It would do no good to my reputation to be alone and unchaperoned for long.”

Hermione took up a position subtly pointed out to her by Jenny, standing next to the door, while Jenny took a position next to Vastra’s chair, as she had done during the consultation with Hermione.

“Why are you here?” Vastra asked. “I can tell that you are nervous. Are you being threatened?” it wasn’t quite the demand it could have been, as Vastra was bothering to moderate her tone.

“My name, Madame, is John Hector McFarlane.”

Vastra noticed the way that Hermione tensed, her hand dipping into a pocket, at the name. The man, focused on Vastra, didn’t.

“You mentioned your name, as if I should recognize it, but I assure you that, beyond the obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know nothing whatever about you." Vastra said.

“"Yes, I am all that, Madame; and, in addition, I am the most unfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven's sake, don't abandon me! If they come to arrest me before I have finished my story, make them give me time, so that I may tell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that you were working for me outside."

"Arrest you!" said Vastra. "This is really most intriguing. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?"

“On the charge of beating a man to death and then burning his body, Ma’am.” Hermione said, withdrawing her hand from the pocket it had dripped into, the tip of her wand resting against the ball of her thumb.

The man was slightly surprised by a livered servant speaking like that, but he could tell, from what he could read from Vastra’s body language under the veil, that this was an expectation of hers.

“Really?” Vastra asked, her voice growing more interested. Jenny passed her the discarded paper Hermione had left in the drawing room, and tapped a paragraph with a finger while it was concealed. “You expect to be arrested on the charge of murdering a Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood?"

“Yes.”

“Did you?” Vastra asked.

“No.” her client replied.

“"We must use what time we have," Vastra said. “Jenny, would you have the kindness to take the paper and to read the paragraph in question?"

Jenny looked down at the paper, before nodding slightly.

“"Late last night, or early this mornin’, an incident occurred at Lower Norwood which points, it is feared, to a serious crime. Mr. Jonas Oldacre is a well-known resident of that suburb, where ‘e ‘as carried on ‘is business as a builder fer many years. Mr. Oldacre is a bachelor, fifty-two years of age, and lives in Deep Dene House, at the Sydenham end of the road of that name. He ‘as ‘ad the reputation of bein’ a man o’ eccentric ‘abits, secretive and retirin’. For some years he has practically withdrawn from t’ business, in which ‘e is said to ‘ave massed considerabble wealth. A small timber-yard still exists, ‘owever, at t’ back o’ t’ ‘ouse, and last night, about twelve o'clock, an alarm was given that one o’ t’ stacks were on fire. The engines were soon ‘pon the spot, but t’ dry wood burned with great fury, and it was impossible to arrest the conflagration ‘til the stack ‘ad been entirely consumed.” Even having grown up in London, Hermione was struggling to entirely track the maid’s delivery. Vastra was also growing moderately irritated.

“Up ter this point the incident bore the appearance of an ordin’ry accident, but fresh indications seem ter point ter a serious crime.” Jenny said, carefully, toning down her accent and trying not to massively irritate her wife, regardless of how entertaining it was. “Surprise was expressed at the absence of the master of the establishment from the scene o’ the fire, an’ an inquiry followed, which showed that ‘e ‘ad disappeared from the house. An examination o’ ‘is room revealed that the bed ‘ad not been slept in, that a safe which stood in it was open, that a number o’ important papers were scattered about the room, and finally, that there were signs of a murderous struggle, slight traces o’ blood bein’ found within the room, and an oaken walkin’-stick, which also showed stains of blood upon the handle.” (1) Jenny paused for breath, noticing that her wife was looking less annoyed and more curious. “It is known that Mr. Jonas Oldacre ‘ad received a late vis’tor in his bedroom upon that night, an’ the stick found ‘as been identified as the property of this person, ‘ho is a young London solicitor named John Hector McFarlane, junyor partner of Graham and McFarlane, of 426 Gresham Buildin’s, E. C. The police believe that they ‘ave evidence in their possession which supplies a very convincin’ motive for the crime, and altogether it cannot be doubted that sensational developments will follow.

"LATER.—It is rumoured as we go ter press that Mr. John Hector McFarlane ‘as actually been arrested on t’ charge o’ t’ murder o’ Mr. Jonas Oldacre. It is at least certain that a warrant has been issued. There have been further and sinister developments in the investigation at Norwood. Besides the signs o’ a struggle in the room of the unfortunate builder it is now known that the French windows o’ ‘is bedroom (which is on the ground floor) were found ter be open, that there were marks as if some bulky object ‘ad been dragged ‘cross ter the wood-pile, and, finally, it is asserted that charred remains have been found ‘mong the charcoal ashes of the fire. The police theory is that a most sensational crime has been committed, that the victim was clubbed ter death in ‘is own bedroom, ‘is papers rifled, and ‘is dead body dragged ‘cross to the wood-stack, which was then ignited so as ter ‘ide all traces of the crime. The conduct o’ the criminal investigation has been left in the experienced hands of Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, ‘ho is following up the clues with ‘is accustomed energy and sagacity." She grinned slightly. “Which means ‘e’ll be darkenin’ our doorstep in a few minutes, looking for ‘elp.”

"The case has certainly some points of interest," She said, her voice taking a tone, that, to Jenny, was normally associated with bacon sandwiches, fry-ups and the late evening. "May I ask, in the first place, Mr. McFarlane, how it is that you are still at liberty, since there appears to be enough evidence to justify your arrest?"

"I live at Torrington Lodge, Blackheath, with my parents, Madame, but last night, having to do business very late with Mr. Jonas Oldacre, I stayed at an hotel in Norwood, and came to my business from there. I knew nothing of this affair until I was in the train, when I read what you have just heard. I at once saw the horrible danger of my position, and I hurried to put the case into your hands. I have no doubt that I should have been arrested either at my city office or at my home. A man followed me from London Bridge Station, and I have no doubt—Great heaven! what is that?"

Once again, to Hermione, it sounded like someone trying to break down the front door using the knocker.

“That’ll be Lestrade.” Jenny muttered, in a tone that Hermione immediately associated with door-to-door salespeople, particularly those selling double glazing in her own time period. “I’ll go an’ git the door, Ma’am.”

Vastra waved a hand, under her veil, and Jenny left the room.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“Potter, Weasley, sit down, please.” Professor McGonagall said, looking at the pair of teenage wizards in her office. They obeyed. “Your friend, Hermione, as you know, is not on the school grounds. Professor Dumbledore has conducted his own investigation, and his conclusion is that she is not in our time period.”

“A time turner?” Harry asked.

“No, Potter.” The professor said. “Somehow, she has travelled… odd as it is to say… in time, without the use of magic.”

“That is possible?” Ron asked.

“Not normally.”

“Then how?” Harry asked.

“We don’t know.” McGonagall replied, truthfully. “We’ve sent an owl to inform her parents. Professor Dumbledore has left a message with a friend he thinks might be able to help.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“And what brings yer to our doorstep this afternoon, Inspector?” Jenny asked, standing slightly behind the open door.

“There has been a murder in Lower Norwood that I think your mistress would be interested in, Miss Flint.” Lestrade replied. The small detective had several uniformed officers standing behind him.

“She’s with a client at the moment.” Jenny said. “I’ll tell her you called.” She shifted her weight slightly, in the hope of shutting the door.

“We know.” Lestrade replied, unobtrusively putting a foot inside the doorframe, with a sufficiently solid boot that Jenny felt that quietly pushing the door against it until he pulled it out wouldn’t work. “One of our plain-clothes men followed him from the station, as he bears a marked resemblance to our prime suspect. I trust that he is not alone with your mistress?”

“There’s someone with her, Inspector.” Jenny replied.

Lestrade sighed slightly. “Please don’t make me use this.” He said, holding out a piece of paper, which looked suspiciously like an open-ended search warrant for Paternoster Row.

“I wasn’t goin’ ter stop yer.” She said, allowing them in, before going into Little Dragon mode when the boot scraper was ignored. “Oi. Clean yer boots.”

 

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“"I must explain first," McFarlane said, "that I knew nothing of Mr. Jonas Oldacre. His name was familiar to me, for many years ago my parents were acquainted with him, but they drifted apart. I was very much surprised therefore, when yesterday, about three o'clock in the afternoon, he walked into my office in the city. But I was still more astonished when he told me the object of his visit. He had in his hand several sheets of a notebook, covered with scribbled writing—here they are—and he laid them on the table.

"'Here is my will,' he said. 'I want you, Mr. McFarlane, to cast it into proper legal shape. I will sit here while you do so.'

"I set myself to copy it, and you can imagine my astonishment when I found that, with some reservations, he had left all his property to me.” Hermione raised an eyebrow. There’d been a famous case by her time where a solicitor had ended up having his trousers flown from a flagpole by an extremely colourful war veteran. The case had resulted in the passing of a law banning those who draw up or witness a will benefiting from it. (2)

He was a strange little ferret-like man, with white eyelashes, and when I looked up at him I found his keen gray eyes fixed upon me with an amused expression. I could hardly believe my own as I read the terms of the will; but he explained that he was a bachelor with hardly any living relation, that he had known my parents in his youth, and that he had always heard of me as a very deserving young man, and was assured that his money would be in worthy hands. Of course, I could only stammer out my thanks. The will was duly finished, signed, and witnessed by my clerk. This is it on the blue paper, and these slips, as I have explained, are the rough draft. Mr. Jonas Oldacre then informed me that there were a number of documents—building leases, title-deeds, mortgages, scrip, and so forth—which it was necessary that I should see and understand. He said that his mind would not be easy until the whole thing was settled, and he begged me to come out to his house at Norwood that night, bringing the will with me, and to arrange matters. 'Remember, my boy, not one word to your parents about the affair until everything is settled. We will keep it as a little surprise for them.' He was very insistent upon this point, and made me promise it faithfully. You can imagine, Mr. Madame, that I was not in a humour to refuse him anything that he might ask. He was my benefactor, and all my desire was to carry out his wishes in every particular. I sent a telegram home, therefore, to say that I had important business on hand, and that it was impossible for me to say how late I might be. Mr. Oldacre had told me that he would like me to have supper with him at nine, as he might not be home before that hour. I had some difficulty in finding his house, however, and it was nearly half-past before I reached it. I found him…”

"Who opened the door?" Vastra interrupted.

"A middle-aged woman, who was, I suppose, his housekeeper."

"And it was she, I presume, who mentioned your name?" Vastra asked.

"Exactly," McFarlane said.

“Please, continue.”

"I was shown by this woman into a sitting-room, where a frugal supper was laid out. Afterwards, Mr. Jonas Oldacre led me into his bedroom, in which there stood a heavy safe. This he opened and took out a mass of documents, which we went over together. It was between eleven and twelve when we finished. He remarked that we must not disturb the housekeeper. He showed me out through his own French window, which had been open all this time."

“Was the blind down?” Vastra asked.

"I cannot be sure, but I believe that it was only half down. Yes, I remember how he pulled it up in order to swing open the window. I could not find my stick, and he said, 'Never mind, my boy, I shall see a good deal of you now, I hope, and I will keep your stick until you come back to claim it.' I left him there, the safe open, and the papers made up in packets upon the table. It was so late that I could not get back to Blackheath, so I spent the night at the Anerley Arms, and I knew nothing more until I read of this horrible affair in the morning."

 

A few moments later, while Vastra was digesting the narrative, Hermione heard the sounds of several people, including Jenny, who was complaining about the “blinkin’ carpits.”

At a gesture from Vastra, a simple nod under the veil, she opened the door.

The civilian clothed man leading a small group of uniformed officers had a small frame, even by Victorian standards. He had a narrow face, with dark, narrow eyes, and an unhealthy looking sallow complexion. He was smartly dressed, with a bowler, although his clothes showed signs of what looked like mud and dirt, and his bowler was somewhat battered, although by no means disreputable.

“Inspector.” Vastra’s tone was somewhat curt.

“Madame.” He replied. “Have you…” he raised a paper, before spotting McFarlane in a corner, standing behind a horsetail. “He’s here, then.”

“He is, Inspector.” Vastra replied. “And he has a most curious story.”

“"Mr. John Hector McFarlane, I arrest you for the wilful murder of Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of Lower Norwood." Lestrade said. The uniformed officers following him moved forwards.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed Jenny exchanging silent signals with Vastra, while the constables were looking the other way, and Lestrade was detaining his suspect, although she couldn’t read them.

« _No, Jenny. We aren’t going to do anything.»_ Vastra signalled.

« _He’s not their culprit, Love.»_ Jenny signalled back.

« _It’d cause trouble.»_ Vastra signalled, surprised to be acting as the voice of reason, when it was normally Jenny who kept her and assorted apes from coming to blows.

Jenny snorted slightly, before taking up her station behind the tea table.

"I think there will be no difficulty in clearing it up." Lestrade said, grimly, looking at Vastra and Jenny. “Will you be taking the case?”

“I think I will be, Inspector.” Vastra replied.

“Do you have any more questions for him, or can we take him away?”

“I won’t have any more questions until I have been to Blackheath.” Vastra replied.

"You mean to Norwood." said Lestrade.

“I will be going to Blackheath first.” She said. “Good day, Inspector.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1): I edited this, and I struggle to follow it. The best tip I can give is to read it out phonetically.  
> (2) The gentleman in question being a Col. A.D. Wintle, MC, who is one of the most colourful people I have ever come across, although sadly, not personally.
> 
> Some of the text elements have been borrowed from the original Holmes novel, and, in some cases, translated into the phonetic slang used by Jenny.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a long time since I updated this. I suspect that accents will have shifted a little, but I should be able to produce a few more chapters, as I know exactly where the story needs to go.  
> I’d like to thank MarcusRowland for giving me the impetus to move forward with this story again.

“Ma’am?” Jenny asked, after a few moments of silence and digestion. “Why are we goin’ to Black’eath before we goes to Norwood?”

“Because there is more to this case than meets the eye, Jenny.” Vastra replied.

“I can tell that.” Her wife responded. “What I don’t know is why that more is to be found in Black’eath and not Norwood.”

“Firstly, Jenny, the constabulary will be all over Norwood for some time. I would prefer to view the scene after they have departed. Secondly, we need to answer the question of why our victim chose Mr McFarlane to draw up his will and be the sole heir. And finally, we need to learn more about our solicitor. Does he have a reputation for violence? Or for being untrustworthy? In our practice, we see enough solicitors who are untrustworthy and criminal, to say the least.”

“You're right, Ma’am.” Jenny said, after a moment of thought. “The bluebottles is lookin’ at somethin’ which seems ter be open an’ shut, an’ they ain’t lookin’ at why it ‘appined.”

Hermione was standing there, looking slightly dazed at the conversation. It seemed familiar somehow. It was like she’d read it in a novel. She just couldn’t remember when.

“Tell Strax to bring my carriage around.” Vastra said. “Hermione, you will be accompanying us. I see no risk to any of us on this excursion, beyond London traffic, so I have no concerns for your safety.”

“Madame?” Hermione asked in response. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take notes, look out for anything unusual, and listen carefully." Vastra replied, sinking back into her chair with a look on her face that suggested she was awaiting a reward.

Behind Vastra, Jenny rolled her eyes slightly, before leaving the room, in search of three overcoats, one with a hood, and three hats. The hats were a tall, multi-plumed hat for Vastra, even if she was wearing her hood, and two smaller, less ornate hats with a single plume for herself and Hermione. 

Then it was time to locate Strax. A short trip into the kitchen confirmed her suspicions

“HOI!” she yelled, after setting down the clothes she was carrying, and arming herself with a broom. “Get your backside outta me cupboard and go and get the coach harnessed up. We’ve got a case.”

“Yes, boy.” Strax said, with his usual enthusiasm. “I will harness the coach for the glory of the Sontaran Empire.”

“You do that.” Jenny replied. “And if Madame has to replace another horse…”

“I understand, boy.” Strax said, heading into the coachyard as Jenny collected up the various coats and hats, before she headed back through into the hallway where Hermione was waiting.

“You’ll need these.” She said, pushing both items into the teenager’s hands, before donning her own. Vastra stepped out of her study, and was prompted loaded into her overcoat. Jenny plopped Vastra’s hat on top of the Silurian’s head without stopping. Vastra twitched slightly, as if in protest, but stopped almost immediately.

Donning her own jacket, Hermione noticed that it was surprisingly stiff and heavy for a woman’s overcoat as she fastened the black double-breasted coat. It also came down to her knees, and slightly beyond them.

Noticing her expression, Jenny was quick to explain. “Madame ‘ad ‘em made specially fer us. They’ve got layers of somethin’ called Kevlar which stops bullets, an’ a thick layer of leather ter stop knives.”

Hermione just blinked a few times.

“We don’t need them very often, but it’s ‘elpful to always be wearin’ them. Just in case we gets shot at or somethin’.”

“I thought you were…” She tailed off, not having ever actually been told what the occupants of Paternoster Row did. 

“We’re detectives.” Jenny said quickly. “We work for the Police and for Private Clients.”

Vastra muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “And the police need all the help they can get.”

Before they stepped outside, Vastra briefly bent over a thick directory, opening it to Mc, and then turning pages until she found the address she was looking for. A clatter outside announced their carriage.

Outside the door, there was a coachman pulled up in a horse-drawn vehicle with a window at the front, behind the driver’s seat, and smaller ones at the sides, as well as in the doors. The coachman was short, extremely broadheaded, and rather obviously not human, although he was wearing a sober butler’s suit. The horse was a typical bay, with four white socks and a star providing distinguishing features. 

The coachman swung down off of his seat, before pulling open the door of the coach. Vastra climbed inside first, taking the right-hand seat, while Jenny hauled herself aboard, and into the left-hand seat. Hermione, after a moment, clambered in, and wedged herself between the two of them. She was slightly taken aback when Vastra made a movement that felt suspiciously like a snuggle.

“She likes body-heat.” Jenny whispered. “If her hands start to wander or somethin’, give the hand in question a whack.” Hermione heard a sound that sounded like a hiss from Vastra.

Vastra behaved herself for the carriage journey, which was fairly typical, as far as Vastra and Jenny were concerned. Travelling in the centre of the road, they passed various drays, growlers and broughams, along with coupes, and a selection of hackneys at a trot. Looking out of the growler, Hermione recognised some landmarks, but missed others.  
The BT Tower, Canary Wharf, and dozens of other office buildings were missing. In their place, she could see church spires, factory smokestacks, and mills, stretching across central London. At a steady trot, they arrived at their destination about an hour after setting off. 

Strax, as Hermione had learnt their coachman was called, pulled the coach to a stop, before clambering down from the driving platform, and opening the door. The Stink was slightly stronger in Blackheath than it had been in central London, but not by much.  
Jenny led the way out of the coach, with a glance that swept around the various passers-by that put Hermione in mind of Mad-Eye Moody. She doubted anything had escaped the maid in those few moments, as she turned to help Vastra out of the carriage, leaving Hermione to clamber out without assistance.  
  
Once everyone was out, Strax was briefly frisked by Jenny, in the guise of checking a wheel. Once she was satisfied that his armament was limited to a revolver, she stepped away, before turning and knocking at the door. The choice was pragmatic: Strax was minding the carriage, and Vastra’s people skills were slightly limited.  
  
It was almost immediately answered by a small woman in her fifties, wearing fairly typical middle-class house clothes, with surprisingly blue eyes.  
  
“Mrs McFarlane?” Jenny asked. “I’m here about your son.”  
  
“What’s happened to him?” the woman asked. “My husband is out searching for him. He didn’t come home last night, or return to his lodgings.”  
  
“I’m afraid, Ma’am, your son has been arrested.” Jenny explained, as gently as possible. “On suspicion of murder.”  
  
“Murder?” the little woman breathed. “Of who?”  
  
“Can we come inside, ma’am?” Jenny asked. “It’ll be more comfortable for us all.”  
  
“Certainly.” She said, ushering the three women inside. “Can I get tea for you?”  
  
“I’m fine, Ma’am.” Jenny said, shooting a glance at Vastra, who’d perked up slightly.  
  
They were led through into a small sitting room, modestly appointed, but with good quality furniture and a sideboard displaying photographs.  
  
“Now.” Their host asked. “Who is my son accused of murdering?”  
  
“A Mr Jonas Oldacre of Lower Norwood.” Jenny was watching the woman carefully for clues.  
  
“Him?” The woman replied angrily. “How did my son encounter that blackguard and come to murder him?”  
  
“He walked into your son’s office.” Jenny said. “And elicited his services as a solicitor in drawing up a will, which, by your son’s account, which we have heard, made your son his sole beneficiary.”  
  
“My son would have had nothing to do with that blackguard, and would never have taken a penny from him.” Mrs McFarlane replied. “Oldacre was more like a malignant ape than a human being. I knew him as a young man, and he was forever like that. He was an old suitor of mine, before I learnt more about him. I was engaged to him, once. I broke it off when I learnt that he had set a cat loose in an aviary for sport. He returned my photo to me on my wedding day, mutilated with a knife.”  
She rummaged in a bureau, before producing the photograph. Vastra looked it over carefully, and there were a couple of flickers of what looked almost like a tongue, before the Silurian passed it back.  
  
“Have you ever spoken of this to your son?” Vastra asked.  
  
“Many times.” Mrs McFarlane said. “I have told my son about that beast many times, and to avoid him at all costs.”  
  
They spent about half an hour discussing the case.  
  
“Did Hector ever use violence towards anyone?” Jenny asked.  
  
“No.” his mother replied. “He’s never hurt a fly.”  
  
“Would he have hurt anyone for any reason?”  
  
“No!” his mother exclaimed. “He isn’t that sort of person.  
  
After another offer of tea had been turned down, Vastra, Jenny and Hermione left the house, with its now weeping occupant, to travel to the scene of the crime itself.


	5. Chapter 5

When they loaded themselves back into the coach, with Strax’s assistance, Hermione noticed that Jenny slipped into the seat in the centre of the carriage, and Vastra immediately pressed herself close to her maidservant for warmth. Once the passengers were inside the carriage, Strax leant inside briefly.

“Where do you want to go?” He asked. “Home, or Lower Norwood?”

“Deep Dene House, Lower Norwood.” Jenny stated. “And no tiffs with a brewer’s dray this time.”

Strax seemed to sulk slightly as he clambered into the driver’s seat.

Hermione slotted into the seat Jenny had occupied before the carriage moved off with a slightly lurch. When she reached out to keep herself in her seat, she disturbed a small catch on the inside of the carriage wall.

A small compartment swung open. Unlike most such compartments, which were likely to contain a bottle of brandy, a flask of whiskey, or some similar spirit, this one was more martial in nature. A pair of revolvers nestled in velvet, handles presented to the occupants. Next to them, a pair of short blades sat in leather sheaths.

Hermione took an involuntary breath as she recognised a pair of tantos. The blades had filigreed gold pommels, and the grips were wrapped with a strange looking leather, while the sheaths extended into a pair of sockets.

Jenny leant over and flicked the compartment closed, and replaced the catch.

“Just some insurance, is all.” She explained. “Someone gave us the things a few years back when we ‘elped ‘em out.”

Hermione shook her head slightly. Somehow, the weapons seemed to speak of some regular danger.

“Most of the time, they’re for gettin’ rid of someun that’s tryin’ to rob us.” Jenny clarified.

Hermione shifted slightly. By her standards, a firearm on its own was a massive escalation.

“So, Hermione.” Vastra asked, after a few moments of pregnant silence. “What did you make of Mrs McFarlane.”

“She seemed nice.” Hermione said. “And strong, to have walked away from an engagement.”

“If she tells the police what she told us, she’ll strengthen the case against her son.” Vastra observed. “That sort of utter hatred, particularly if her son has been regularly told about the reason for it, is motive enough for the police.”

Jenny looked up from her notebook briefly. Hermione noted that the Victorian was writing notes in an elegant copperplate.

“Do you think it was a coincidence, Ma’am?” Jenny asked. “That Mr Oldacre sought out the son of his former fiancée to make his will, and to make him his heir?”

Vastra paused for a second.

“That’s an excellent question, Jenny.” She replied. “I’d be interested to see a copy of the will at some point.” The Silurian snuggled a bit closer to her wife, clearly enjoying the proximity of the endothermic human. “If he walked into an unknown solicitor’s office out of the blue, even if he knew of him, and made out his will to the man…”

“He’s either extremely trusting, or…”

“He has an ulterior motive.” Vastra finished. “If he intended to cause trouble for Mr McFarlane, I wouldn’t be shocked.”

“Do you think…”

“I don’t, Jenny.” Vastra replied. “Some a… people are born killers. Some, like you, are capable of killing if pushed. And then there are those who would struggle to raise a hand if their life was endangered.”

“Which of those do you think McFarlane is?”

“He doesn’t strike me as a killer. And he seems utterly meek, but looks can be deceiving.” Vastra said, looking at her wife. “After all, to look at you, is to see a submissive female in a servant’s uniform.”

“An’ I’m anythin’ but, yer old lizard.” Jenny replied, fondly. “An’ when folks look at you an’ see a veiled woman in widow’s weeds, they underestimates you as well.”

“It is useful sometimes.” Vastra said. “To be underestimated. Hermione, why might people underestimate you?” The Silurian asked, curiously.

Hermione hesitated. Going into the minefield of wizarding politics, particularly in a different century, wasn’t something she wanted to do. “I’m female.” She said, finally. “Even by my era, people underestimate a witch when they wouldn’t underestimate a wizard.”

Vastra nodded. The fact that the girl had hesitated was a matter for another conversation.

The ride was fairly typical and straightforward for the passengers, although Jenny did bang on the window a couple of times. Strax, as usual, needed reminders about road-rage, rights of way, and consideration for other road users.

Lower Norwood was comparatively close to Blackheath, compared to their earlier journey across the Thames from Paternoster Row. It wasn’t too hard to find their destination. Strax had once been put through the Knowledge by an old friend of Vastra and Jenny’s, so he was able to navigate them to their destination with ease.

The Paternoster Growler pulled up outside a fairly large brick villa, set well back from the road, in its own grounds. In front of the house, a large lawn provided an approach with little cover, except for clusters of laurels. To one side of the property, a short distance from the house, with a damaged laurel hedge between them, was a woodyard.

At a guess, it was likely to be where the alleged cremation had taken place. Vastra deduced that from the proximity, the curious onlookers, and the ring of uniformed officers surrounding the site.

At a signal, Jenny shrugged out of her coat, and left it in the carriage. Looking like an ordinary suburban servant, albeit one in an unusually ornate uniform, she sidled around the side of the house, heading for the crowd. With her canvasser deployed, Vastra led Hermione towards the door, before pounding on it.

After a few seconds, the door was opened on its chain by a suspicious policeman. After seeing and recognising Vastra, he opened the door fully.

“Oh, it’s you.” He said. “Where’s your normal maid?”

“Jenny is busy being helpful elsewhere, Sergeant Hammond.” Vastra said, airily to the fairly typical policeman. Large, possessed of mutton chops, a slightly florid face, crowned with a blue custodian helmet, he could have been an advert for Victorian policing.

“You’re here to view the scene?” He asked, without preamble.

“I am, Sergeant.” Vastra replied. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Hermione trailed along, effectively considered part of Vastra by the various police officers. Her uniform helped her blend in, particularly given that Vastra seemed to often have several different ‘relief’ maids.

Outside the bedroom, another officer stood guard. He nodded, before gesturing to the Silurian to step inside the room.

As soon as she did, Vastra caught the coppery tang of blood. Although she couldn’t be sure after twelve hours, it didn’t entirely smell like human blood. The rest of the room was disordered, and seemed to show signs of a struggle.

Moving forwards, Vastra looked closely at some of the displaced items, checking if, for example, they lay atop a blood stain, suggesting scene dressing.

There was nothing, although she did notice an almost curious lack of blood spatter in the room. Considering that a man had supposedly been beaten to death with a walking stick, she’d have expected blood everywhere.

There were a few fresh smears of blood, however. Vastra shook her head. Something wasn’t entirely adding up. She ignored the pile of documents on the table, other than to establish that they were related to Oldacre and the house. When she wanted to read such documents, she usually handed them to Jenny for a summary. If they were related to her own house, or the rest of her life, she would bother to read them. She did collect a handwritten sheaf of paper that appeared to be a draft of the man’s will, however, for evidence. One of the officers noted her taking it.

“Hermione, make a plan of the room, please.” Vastra instructed the human, watching over her shoulder as she did so. She took the opportunity to just stand in the room, and allow her subconscious to guide her to abnormalities. A few things felt wrong to the Silurian, but she couldn’t prove anything.

The line from the bedroom window to the woodyard was fairly direct, and over firm ground. Perhaps the best tracker in her clutch would have been able to tell her things about the trail, but Vastra could not make out anything. Fresh, she might have made something out. She couldn’t smell any traces of scared ape, though, which was quite interesting in its own right. Her ability to demonstrate that to a court was lacking though, so the Silurian decided not to bring it up.

When she reached the pile of ashes that had once been a woodpile, Vastra was handed a small pile of what were clearly burnt buttons, several of which were stamped “Hyams”. As this was the name of the man’s tailor, the various police officers were fairly excited. Vastra gestured at Hermione, who made a note, and carefully drew one of the buttons.

Once that was done, Vastra headed inside to interview the housekeeper. The woman, a Mrs Lexington, was fairly short, with sun-darkened skin, black hair, and eyes that were constantly flickering to the side.

The woman confirmed the police account to Vastra, explaining events that had led up to her employer’s presumed death in a fair amount of detail. The one thing that Vastra noted, though, was that she never expanded on a point after her initial statement.

“Yes,” she said. She’d let Mr. McFarlane in at half-past nine. She wished her hand had withered before she had done so. She had gone to bed at half-past ten. Her room was at the other end of the house, and she could hear nothing of what passed. Mr. McFarlane had left his hat, and to the best of her belief his stick, in the hall. She had been awakened by the alarm of ﬁre.

“Did Mr Oldacre have any enemies?” Vastra asked.

“Every man has enemies.” Was the reply. “Mr Oldacre kept himself to himself, and didn’t involve himself in other men’s business outside of his work.”

Vastra showed her the buttons.

“Those were on the trousers he was wearing last night.” The housekeeper replied. “The officers already asked me.”

To further questions, about the fire itself, she replied.

“The wood-pile was very dry, for it had not rained for a month. It burned like tinder, and by the time I reached the spot nothing could be seen but ﬂames.” She and all the ﬁremen smelled the burned ﬂesh from inside it. She knew nothing of the papers, nor of Mr. Oldacre’s private affairs.

Vastra shook her head, slightly, as the woman stepped out of the room. Something about the situation wasn’t adding up.

Hermione, for her part, was racking her brains. Jonas Goldacre. Hector McFarlane. Lower Norwood. An uncooperative housekeeper. It all seemed familiar. She just couldn’t quite place it as it danced on the edge of her mind.

When they returned to the carriage, Jenny was waiting for them, seated on the step like an oversized bootblack. The illusion even extended as far as the polishing kit she had spread out on the floor, while she worked on one of her own work shoes.

“Trouble, dear?” Vastra asked.

“Nothin’ much.” Jenny replied. “Just a sweep who was a little too free wi’ ‘is ‘ands.”

“Did you get any information?” Vastra asked.

“Nothin’ much.” Jenny said again. “Not too many of the locals had much in the way of kindness towards Mr Oldacre. He had a reputation for hittin’ children for little reason, puncturin’ balls, and other such unpleasantness. One woman claimed he’d kicked her dog once when it strayed slightly over his property bound’ries.”

“So our suspect pool has expanded.” Vastra said with a sigh. “The entire street would have had reasons enough to harm him.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an update delay. Being a student means studying happens.  
> Should be able to start producing a bit more for this story again.  
> Edited 04.11.17 to put dialogue into accents.

The ride back through London traffic was complicated by the rush hour. After a particularly close tangle over the right of way down a street just short of London Bridge, Jenny took steps. Strax was hauled from his seat by his overcoat's collar, kneed in the diaphragm, and then pushed into the carriage before he could catch his breath.

Now that the broad non-human was off of the driver's seat, Hermione surprised herself by clambering out of the coach.

 Jenny, seeing the younger human looking slightly indecisive, tapped the broad seat next to her.

 "Sit 'ere." She said. " It'll be a relief fer the both of us."

 "Why?" Hermione asked, hauling herself into the seat.

 "It's nice ter 'ave someone to talk ter 'ooze visit don't usually mean that sum alien is about ter attack us." Jenny explained. "And who ain't frum around here. And who don't judge me lifestyle choices."

 "That won't change. " Hermione said. "Not for a long time. Girls with Girls is slightly less of a real issue than men with men, but even in a century..."

 "I cin 'ope. " Jenny said with a small, mischievous smile. "I don't suppose..."

 "No! " Hermione responded, shocking herself slightly at how quickly and forcefully she said it. "I like boys."

 "Don't let Madame rile yer up then. " Jenny said with a different smile. "I swear beating 'er around the 'ead with a poker is more attractive ter 'er than a set of smalls made outta roses."

 Hermione found herself going slightly red.

 "Sorry." Jenny said, with the sort of smile that put Hermione in mind of an impish Ginny. "Din't mean ter embarrass yer." Her expression, on the other hand, said the opposite.

 Hermione giggled slightly. Jenny looked across at her, before breaking into a fit of her own giggles.  After a moment, she flicked the reins of the carriage, which started forward somewhat more sedately than if Strax had been driving.

As the carriage merged into the traffic lane, Hermione was surprised to notice a certain amount of gesticulation directed towards an omnibus which hadn't made room for them.

 "Stupid Oanist." Jenny muttered under her breath, combining the Agincourt salute with a volley of less contained profanity. "Watch where yer going or get ya ruddy eyes charked, yer bliddy zounderkite!"

A volley of profanity flew the other way, which Jenny returned with a modified Agincourt salute, before cutting in front of the omnibus with a flick of the reins. Hermione could hear grumbling from the vehicle behind over the rattle of the iron shod wheels on the granite street paving. Hermione just shook her head slightly, surprised by the way that Jenny was driving.

 "Where did you learn to drive?" She asked.

 "Outta a cab yard run by a friend of ours." Jenny explained. "Inevitably, that meant I learnt ter drive like a cabbie, but it comes in 'andy frum time ter time." Jenny kept her eyes on the road, flickering across nearby exits, junctions and oncoming vehicles with a speed that seemed almost excessive. "Stopping distances on a growler wi' one horse is a right pain, though, compared ter a hansom."

 "What was it like?" Hermione asked.

 "'Ard work, occasionally damned borin', and the reason fer the little surprise next ter yer left hand." Jenny said, negotiating an interchange with three different roads.

Hermione reached down, and found a short shillelagh sitting where it could easily be grasped.

 "Always useful when the pubs is closed fer the night." Jenny explained, as she trotted the carriage across a crossroads, making way for a brewer's dray from her right. " Some blokes think it's their right ter git touchy."

Hermione rolled her eyes slightly. That was something that hadn't changed by her era, certainly after a few drinks.

 "Any ideas as to the case?" Hermione asked, before a few moments of silence while Jenny negotiated for right of way with a growler wearing hansom livery. The dispute was settled when Jenny checked the oncoming cab with her left wheel, stopping the horse from moving forwards. There was an exchange of expletives.

Jenny deployed "Zounderkite Oanist! Watch where yer goin'!"

The reply was "Putain salope anglaise! Où as-tu appris à conduire? Classe de travaux d'aiguille?"

 "Pass me the stick." Jenny muttered, wrenching the coach to a stop. "Someun needs a lesson in manners. This ain’t bloody Paris."

It was roughly at this point that Hermione concluded that Jenny had probably taught Strax to drive.

A quick glance revealed a pair of police officers approaching on Jenny's nearside.

 "Police!" She hissed, nodding in their direction.

Jenny bristled slightly, before driving on, putting distance between herself and the police, along with the other coach. Palming her wand, Hermione aimed it at the Frenchman’s horse and muttered "Ictus." Almost immediately the horse reared, leaving the coachman struggling to control the animal, and attracting the attention of two police officers.

 "Thanks for spotting them." She said, after a minute or so of muttering untranslatable profanity in at least three languages. Hermione caught a mixture of English, German and what sounded like Japanese swearwords in combination with intensifiers, nouns, and several words she couldn't translate. "What happened to the horse?"

 "Nothing much. " Hermione said. "I made it feel like it had been stung by a bee."

 "Why? " Jenny asked.

Hermione blinked a couple of times. It'd been malicious. The horse hadn't done anything to her.

 "I... don't know." She replied. "It'll recover."

Hermione spent the rest of an uneventful and quiet journey pondering exactly why she'd used a stinging hex on a horse. Despite the musings, she couldn't come up with a real reason why she'd done it, other than retaliation.

After the coach had clattered to a halt in the stable-yard at the rear of paternoster row, Jenny clambered off of the driver’s seat, before handing the horse over to strax for a rub-down and some food.

“An’ if I comes out ‘ere ter find yer’ve blasted the ‘orse or somethin’…” Jenny threatened, as the sontaran led the horse back to its stable. “There will be ‘ell ter pay. Gotcha?”

“I will not harm the horse unless it fails in its mission, boy.” Strax replied. “As it has not, it is perfectly safe in my care.”

“Good.” Jenny said, heading for the kitchen door. Hermione was close behind, while Vastra was already halfway there.

Once they were inside the house, Hermione was handed a heavy iron kettle.

“I don’t suppose yer could make the tea, couldya?” Jenny asked.

“Any requirements?” Hermione replied.

“Milk in first, please, ‘Ermione.” Jenny said. “Madame gets right waspish if ‘er tea ‘as scalded milk in it.”

With that, Jenny headed through to the sitting room, where Vastra, presumably, had already taken up her seat.

Hermione shook her head slightly, before filling the kettle, slightly surprised at the weight of the copper kettle. Although it didn’t weigh anything close to what she imagined a cast iron kettle would have, it was heavier than she’d have expected a similarly sized electric kettle to be.

A tap provided an easy source of water for the kettle, with an elegant chromed spout forming a horseshoe above the sink. A lever operated the tap, allowing Hermione to fill the kettle, and then close the tap again before the kettle overflowed.

A black stove squatting in one corner of the room under a fireplace seemed to hit at the most likely source of heat. As it was where Jenny had deposited the kettle earlier, Hermione placed it on top of the stove, before using a nearby poker to stir the embers within the stove.

Several minutes later, the stove still appeared to be dormant, and a short test proved that little heat was being transferred. Drawing her wand, Hermione pointed it at the kettle, before muttering “Ferveret” under her breath. Within a few seconds, steam was issuing from the kettle.

Rather than try to root out the bone china that had materialised from a cupboard when Jenny made the tea, Hermione grabbed down three of the earthenware mugs from the top of the fireplace. Hanging on wooden pegs set into the wooden mantel, Hermione was unsurprised when they showed signs of heavy use and wear. The milk jug sat near the stove, covered with a damp cloth, and about half full of milk.

The routine was straightforward. The boiling water went into the silver teapot, along with six teaspoonfuls of leaves from the tea caddy. Each mug was then anointed with milk, receiving half a centimetre of milk, while the tea leaves steeped for three minutes. Hermione used the time to search out a tin of rich tea biscuits, which she noticed came from a familiar brand.

Once the tea itself was ready, Hermione poured the tea through a strainer, catching the loose leaves as they came out of the pot. A pair of biscuits on each saucer completed the order, and she wasted little time in loading them onto a tea tray.

As before, she was slightly startled to be using something that would cost hundreds of pounds and have sat on a wall in her own time. Instead, there was a rack of them, all showing signs of use and careful maintenance.

It didn’t help, though, when she stepped into the sitting room to find Jenny and Vastra sitting in the same armchair, making no effort to disguise that they were in a relationship.


End file.
